Nobel

I lost 10 rupees to a friend today. Had wagered in favour of Morgan Tsangurai to get the Nobel Peace 2009. Was at City Centre when the news broke. He called to celebrate his win. Not that he had seen this coming. None of us had. After the initial gloat was over, he admitted to have been as baffled as I was then. Not that I was completely sure he was being honest.


Barak Hussain Obama, the recipient of this year's award just accepted his award with the requisite amount of humility and just the right amount of humour. Beamed live across millions of homes, with his own countrymen in disbelief, most unable to mutter anything beyond an almost incomprehensible, "Awesome!", he said this award was a call to action and would spur him on to achieve what he had set out to achieve.

But that is it, isn't it? You aren't supposed to be spurred on by the award. It is supposed to be the crown of your actions, not the base of it. We all share the European community's broad based sense of relief and cautious infectious optimism with the change of regime across the Atlantic but surely this is going overboard?
The man at the helm of a country waging two active wars, with troop numbers surging in Afganistan by 28,000 and escalating drone attacks in Pakistan killing civilians as collateral damage in the "War against Terror", Mr.Obama is hardly the apostle of peace.

The "President with the best intentions" Award perhaps but the Nobel? Obtuse though I am, I absolutely fail to see his "his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy". He commissioned talks in the Middle East. To no immediate effect. He involved the U.N. Again, no effect. We are so terribly happy at the U.N. getting back to where it should have been all the time. It is ridiculous that the committee has cited Obama's stated position on bilateral negotiations as one of the factors for the decision.
Where, pray, is the peace? In the U.S. tacit coup attempts in Honduras? In his eight odd months of office, what key international work has been achieved? Climate change? Brilliant speech. Nuclear disarmament? Brilliant speech. Concrete work? Sorry, that is for the history books. We at the Nobel Committee do not care for such trivialities.

In the years to come, I will probably be proved wrong. And the seasoned greyheads in Oslo will probably be laughing triumphant, albeit tooth-less, smiles. They have probably correctly identified a trend. But to award a man for offering hope seems too much. His P.R. team maybe. I am sorry that the world has come to a state where we give away the greatest human prize for just being a decent being. Extraordinary conduct seems a dead ideal.

Of dreams and men

I met the man of my dreams a couple of days ago. On the penultimate day of the Durga Pujo festivities. The fabulous news is that the whole thing is so brilliantly unrealistic than I cannot pine away at the possibility of it never clicking.

My dream guy is a rickshawallah. A tad above twenty would be my guess, who seated me on his three wheeler chariot and pedalled me home for about ten minutes. The guy, who, after a month and a half, has finally managed to wake me from the stupor I had got myself into, will probably never cross paths with me again. It is, probably, just as well.

Most Rickshaw journeys are sullen affairs devoid of smalltalk. For most people. The people who sit are far too busy or important to talk to the "little" people. The "little" people are much too overworked or worried about surviving the night to indulge their temporary masters.

I hailed him at the Lake Gardens Crossing; comfortably seated myself; gave him my posh address and reclined, at ease. He turned back and flashed a smile. I was surprised. Rickshawallahs are seldom so upbeat. He was bursting with energy, almost maniacal. Wary of talkative people in general, I didn't really like the guy. He asked me the time. I informed him. He asked me how I like his rickshaw. I mumbled an incomprehensible reply. He compared his rickshaw to a rocket, then a train," The Tufaan Mail". Slightly disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm, he vowed to show me his might. "Dekhbe, koto jore jete paari?". And, as if to win my appreciation, suddenly the rickshaw was the fastest thing on the road. He even managed to race a couple of "dudes" on a couple of bikes. And when they zipped past, he let out a laugh. He took both hands off the handlebar and felt the wind whipping past. He was smiling the whole way through. Not only was his smile infectious, his energy was too. He zoomed past the other rickshaws; performed semi-dangerous manoeuvres; let out deep roars of satisfaction at how fast his "baby" was.

At the Rickshaw Stand, I alighted and he looked at me, slightly flushed and asked me, " Baaro taka debe?". He was asking me for twice the normal fare. Ashamed probably at his seeming avarice, he sought to explain," Na..maane dada, Pujo-r shomoy..." Stammered an apology about it being the Pujo-s and him needing the money. I paid him the double fare and a rupee over that. He flashed another brilliant smile and asked sheepishly,"Raag koroni toh?"..." You aren't angry, right?"

I would not like to be with someone like him. What amazed me was his vivacity. The spirit that he had managed to retain after a day of back-breaking work. The hope amidst a desperate festival. The desire to feel the wind in his hair on an empty stomach. In a world where many of us succumb to much, much less, he isn't an inspiration. He is a dream.

Of phones.

I have lost my phone. Officially misplaced. People know it has been stolen. It was.
At least I think it was.

It was new. It had a dent on the top left corner. It looked nice. Much too nice.

This is the third phone I have lost in the past 18 months. There will be many more.

I would have loved to say that I have lost a part of myself. That I miss the phone. The characteristic ring. But I don't really. I hate the inconvenience. But I don't want the phone back. I want a phone back.

I guess it was with me for too less a time to forge a bond. I am trying to be sad. Repentant. Responsible.

There are things more about the phone that will make you scream. Things like how the first caller was him. The last too. How both time, I was left stung. The first time he spoke haughtily. The last time, not at all.
I didn't want to type out these things. But now that I have, I think it gives the whole post a pretty fashionable melancholy feel.

I don't miss my phone. I like the fact that I can blame all the ills of my life on it. And now that it is gone, hope again. Even if in vain.

I will start calling people again tomorrow. Today is transition. Not from phone to phone. From life to life.

Untitled 2

When I was little, my mum used to take me to the local market on Sunday evenings. I remember this one evening when we had gone to the fishmonger's and then to buy some stationery. At the shop, somehow, I lost hold of my mum's hand and didn't realize. She didn't either. She happily went off.

I remember standing there, amidst a crowd, trying to look for her hand or hair. I remember giving up. I was found, ten minutes later, my mum visibly distraught. I remember not understanding what the fuss was all about.
For, you see, not for one moment did I think I was in danger. I never doubted my safety. There was this strange strong faith that things had to work out in the end. This was a minor blip. I would be found. Nothing could go wrong. Mum is the superman.

I wish I had the faith now. I think I lost him today. He wears the shirts I picked out for him. He carries the bag I chose for him. He uses my phone. He lives off my love.Its sad to know that he doesn't need me any more.
The sad thing isn't that he doesn't talk to me anymore. The sad thing is that I think he has broken my trust.

Twenty

It has been an hour and twenty six minutes since I turned twenty. TWENTY. A friend told me to be gay cuz its my birthday and another told me to be sad cuz I'm a step closer to death.

Was out shopping with friends. The gloom has lifted somewhat. I am tired of that sinking feeling; I am still uneasy and sometimes despondent but at least I'm looking for a way.

People ask me if I want to be younger. Of course, I say. Not actually. I am pretty happy with my generation. It would be good if I were, say, thirteen. But then, I can always be thirteen. I love the fact that I grew up with Harry Potter; shared battered old mouldy copies of the book with clueless friends, aged as he did, lived as he did, cried as he did. No one else will know the exhilaration now.

One hour and thirty five minutes ago, I grew out of my teenage. I know I didn't party wild every night or get crazy in the middle of the street or managed a girlfriend at fourteen, but I did it my way. At twenty, I think I can say I used my teenage to grow up; to experience the flavours life has to offer, the love, the rain, the sorrow, the snow. I had friends, I have lost friends, I have gained new ones. There are those who love me, love me to death, those with whom I have never been "romantically" linked yet who know that the love between us is stronger than most couples.
Not for this birthday then, self pity and sorrow. I am grateful for everybody. My friends, my outer circle who pep my up, my inner circle who hold me and those who don't call me now but still care.
I have come a long way from the wide eyed boy peering over the balcony on a rain swept day. I'm big now. Old. Not as honest. Never the hip teenager, I don't expect a fashionable adulthood; I don't nurse hopes for universal adulation for my shades or shoes. I don't hope to dangle a girl on my arms. I don't expect to pierce things.
To continue the way I have would be nice enough. Its been fun. For the love. The care. For the countless friends. For school. For college. For food. For you. For him.
The hour and fifty minutes of my new year have been great. I am actually not bummed at turning twenty.

Sad and gay

There is an overwhelming feeling of sorrow. The gloom catches hold of me every time I am not engaged. Its not the ennui. There is an sense of impending misery. A dim view of life. Too much Morissette is bad for me.
The person I thought I has lost, then thought re-gained has been lost again. Distant, inexplicable boundaries separate us while we strive to make tedious, uneasy small-talk across the divide. He isn't my boyfriend. He is much more.

Issues that I used to be passionate about don't excite me as much anymore. I guess I've seen too much. After 4 years, decriminalization of "gay sex" didn't excite me as much as it did a lot of other people who called me to register their joy.
Its never gonna be the same. People will still be ghettoized as part of the "community", denoted as "gays" and "fag" will be still a stinging insult on someone's manliness. Dignified lives are what we were fighting for but then we gave over to the hoopla.
For a moment, step back and realize there are people who aren't dancing at pride parades, who won't say they're proud to be gay and shouldn't be forced to. Give them a choice.
To hope for a day when a child would grow up without worrying if he is gay or how he'll come out seems an outrage. Its all heading the wrong way.
Most don't understand."India has a long tradition of gays; tolerance."..."Its a very sensitive issue"...only break my heart. The problem is that we get carried away cuz there are a fat lot of bigots out there who scream to take the majority's views into account and knock over the "handful of gays". In the end, are we losing sight of the bigger picture?
I recognize the historic occasion.I appreciate it. Let all debates rest and sexuality buried. Can we do that?

I turn 20 next week. End of my teenage. Not that I did much with it. I did, actually. My way. I'll probably be sad on my birthday as well. I'm getting old.
Last year of college. I enjoyed the past two. My way, again. I'll miss it. My way. My teenage too.

Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


The post below is why I put this up.

Henry

Does anyone know what to write about before the writing's done? For the past two weeks, I have over magnificent hills and gazed at depth less gorges, at gurgling streams of frothy white water and stood transfixed at rivers plunging to great depths over green mossy mountains. I have feigned sorrow at great rusted barely standing gates, once lovingly engraved, now mossy, solitary watchers in the midst of a lush field...roads, half paved, that branch off the highway, only to lead nowhere. Signs that proclaim the existence of non-existent stadia and schools round the bend.
I have tried to get moved by the passing of a legend or the sad proclamation of a student protester as he left home perhaps never to return.

I guess I can't escape being selfish; as most of us. If there is a forced, self important tone ingrained in here, pay it no heed. Do not rebuke the writer on account of that. Rise above me.
Let his name be Henry. He was my friend. And so much more. My laughter. My jealousies...my joy. I was his refuge. His brother. Everything that had seemed important enough to argue about seems insipid now. Insignificant little bits fly about in the face of that torment which announces daily of the rift, the loss of the person.
Henry had a friend. Henry loved that friend. I liked the friend and frequently argued with Henry...over little things about her and him. I thought we were stronger.
Now Henry's bond grows stronger with the friend and I look at them from the edge of the road. Henry cuddled up to me. Henry is cold over the phone.
Henry is not sure if he'll want to spend time with me henceforth. I miss him. Not him. I miss us. I never had a friend as he. Will I again?
I am not sure how I'll react if he stops all interaction. One thing is for certain. I will not blame him. And I hope I'll reach a day when I won't blame me.
I am lonely now. Loneliness has lost its appeal because of Henry. Henry told me today that they had grown closer. Henry told me today us getting close as before wasn't possible.

At the risk of sounding pathetic,I say this, "I loved you Henry."

Realize

It has been a day of realizations. And an unexpectedly irritating Sunday.

Was watching cartoons at 8 this morning.The mystery that Scooby and the gang were trying to unravel seemed childish and insipid. I crave childish and insipid. And then, in the midst of Scooby's atrocious Hindi gibber-jabber, I recalled why I loved him. The song, rather, a song, that used to be a part of every episode...I would sit and bear the torture for that one song...How I loved that one song; How I miss it now.


People who don't receive their calls time and again are irritating. Even if they are your best friend. Also very irritating are the "Missed Call" people. Aaargh.

And as I am typing this out, one of the irritating "I never receive my calls" person did receive my call and it turned out he was sleeping...Being drowsy adds this sweetness to his voice and I can't be angry with him.

Had the most awesome day ever yesterday. A Sri-Lankan friend is in town and we went out for lunch, walked and walked and walked and rounded off sipping amazing tea while watching the throng milling in Park Street...He has come down from Bombay( I insist) and has been travelling across India alone for the past month. Atop a bridge off Patna, the sun setting over the Ganges, he said he had wished there were someone by his side; he had wished he were not alone. Melancholy, yes; but also strangely surreal.


As much as I feign empathy for the cyclone victims, deep down I detest donating money. Biting realization.
Friends can be selfish. Rather, people you call your friends can be selfish. My Lankan friends' friends can't spare an afternoon to see him. And to think the only reason for his being in Calcutta is to meet them...



I find blogging difficult nowadays; signs of advanced age, they tell me.

Closure

He is fine now...he is much much more than alive. Thank you everybody. For being there.

I am back to my blissful state of petty insecurities, fights and quarrels. We are fighting at this very moment.

He still might collapse any day and neither one of us nurses dreams of "Happily Ever After"...but I got what I wished for. Another day of glorious sunshine.

India and tennis.

25th May 2009 was an important day for us. And the Indian democracy. On this day, The Supreme Court of India granted bail to a frail looking man of 52...clean shaven, ailing, held under the "Chhattisgarh Special Public Security Act 2005 (CSPSA)"...you could scarcely believe him to be a terrorist, waging war against the state, conspiring against the union. But then, what do I know?

A gold medallist from The Christian Medical College, Vellore, he chose to work amidst the squalor and penury that is the tribal belt of Chattisgarh. In an area where half of the population is malnourished, where thousands of children never live to see their fifth birthday, he was a beacon of hope, insanely popular. Laurels were heaped on him...for both his medical and humanitarian work.
And then, Santoshpur happened.
On the 31st of March 2007, several tribals were killed by the state police under the guise of an encounter...A Human Rights tussle ensued. He was arrested by the state police under charges of sedition in May.

I am not much of a patriot. At least not as much as those who are now crying themselves hoarse...screaming profanities at Australia. It seems though that my "Greatest Country in the World" doesn't care much for dissenting voices. Through the entire ordeal, not one party spoke up for the good doctor. 22 Nobel prize Laureates did.
We all are so caught up in celebrating our democracy that we refuse to see the darker side. The side that suppresses journalistic freedom...that throttles protests armed with a draconian law...where, even the highest court in the land dismisses a bail petition with a single line decree...where politics of vendetta is the only kind of politics on the planet. The Salwa Judum, created by the state to fight Naxals is today an alternate militia trapping the tribals in between...and anybody who raises a voice is deemed a Naxal.

I will not pretend I care for them; for the past half hour, I have been more interested in Nadal losing than him. However, I refuse to drag myself into the " Aussie KAMINEY ki aulad" campaign. Probably., a little sight inward wouldn't be out of place before we shout at others... for my patriot friends,therefore, who feign to care, just two words. Binayak Sen.

Of being alive.

It is the second night. Which will lead on the third morning. Of agony, frantic prayers, tears, tension and above all, fear. Fear that the third morning will never lead to a third night. I tremble at the thought.

It is annoying being cryptic, but the person in question desires the secrecy. I can't name him. He hasn't even told his mum what is going on. Or his best friend. Or his love.

That Saturday morning, as I sat quietly relishing the glory of a joyous Mamata Banerjee, the phone rang...him wheezing on the other side of the line; all an age ago. Time then has past in one whirlwind of tormented emotions, fingers painfully crossed and praying as hard as you could possibly be. And above all, fear. Overwhelming, dark, despondent, macabre fear that threatens to engulf all.

As I sit in the comfort of my home, its half past midnight and the world sleeps...perhaps I will too, in a few hours. And will wake up to the all-paralysing fear, the agonizing wait for a call, his voice.
"Its no use lying to you...I'm bleeding and the doctors are not hopeful this time...".I never knew I could pray this hard or get this afraid. Or this anxious. Everything seems petty now. My conversation with friends is either cosmetic or distant. My concerns are dwarfed by my fears.Death takes you away and never returns... its irreversible.
The first night, he made me promise to tell someone he loved her. To look after her. I hated her. I hate him for telling me to do this if, as he put it, he isn't around. He could barely speak. He told me to not visit him. He couldn't bear it.
I never realized love was this strong a bond. I bet he didn't either. I know nothing will happen to him... He fights as I type. He promised me. He will come back to me.
He can't die. He won't. He is just sick, that is all.

Untitled

I am sick of being sad...I am mad at myself for letting me be so melancholy for so long. Saw a setting sun the size of the millennium ball yesterday;shored up my mood considerably. Examinations underway, I have decided to not be sad. Its just not worth it.

The elections are underway here in Bengal and its huge fun. I like it almost as much as music. Mamata Bannerjee, me on my bed with Pakeezah plugged into my ears. Wouldn't have it any other way.

Channels have cried themselves hoarse over the past three days at how strife torn Nondigram registered a 88% turnout and Delhi clocked a placid 45%...the awakening of the masses, as they put it.
A man of seventy woke up at seven after a tiring day in the field the previous day. Tired but determined to register his franchise, he walked to the polling booth in the oppressive heat that characterises rural Bengal nowadays...walked back home only to find out his home gutted by fire,"accidentally" set on fire by "alleged" political goons. He stands outside his home with not a straw in the world to call his own. He cries, buries his face in his hands and you zoom into his now dead face to listen to his hollow, unsteady, almost suicidal voice while you ask him,"So, did you vote for the CPI(M)?"
From the comfort of my bed, I watch them. I have the luxury to contemplate. They don't. They are far too busy seeing their lives go up in smoke. Or like the distraught lady in Asansol who kept asking every passer-by,"Ami Ghashphool-e vote dilam bole eta holo?"..."Did this happen cuz I voted for the flower?". She is too busy crying, you see, to take part in our hoopla over the success of elections in Nondigram.
2009 has seen violence erupt in several parts of normally peaceful Bengal,with scores of people dead, houses gutted, lives shattered.People too scared to step on the village road cuz they're sure to be shot in the open. Or, as the Election Commission puts it,"Isolated little incidents of violence".
My friend consoles me, says the local committee of a certain party will disburse money to these people once the elections are over. He says it will never come out in the open...so its alright I guess.It shouldn't matter.
My largest democracy in the world marches on. As Lata Mangeshkar puts it," Yeh chiraag bujh rahe hai, mere saathe jalte jalte..."
I am feeling really cheery today.

Just a day...just an ordinary day

The person who has been responsible for my Love's physical survival is dead. He passed away last night. He messaged me at 3 while performing the last rites. I was sleeping.

I couldn't bring myself to utter insincere words of consolation. Instead, for the first time in 4 years, I prayed to Jesus for a man I never knew.
He was my Love's doctor.


All day today, I wanted to hold his hand...he seems broken. He doesn't admit it, he doesn't cry, he is busy being a man. He'll be here tomorrow.

For about an hour today, all my jealousy, my insecurities, my grudges were replaced by this hollow voice, this weird unstable feeling of absolute helplessness...he says it hasn't sunk in yet. It seems surreal.

I have been trying to empathise, to share the pain but all my efforts seem cosmetic and I am afraid he knows it too.


Its a still summer night now and after a long day he has finally drifted off to sleep. I however find that useless banter is of much help...I am having a mock fight with a feisty friend and I see its working. I am not better, I am more diverted. Tinkling laughter, my own voice, is shocking me...after all that has happened today.

I thought of writing this out in better words but this is all I can manage...I hope to see him tomorrow. I hope to have him with me. We'll go out for dinner. The days will roll on. Without him.

Haven't been in the mood to write anything for quite some time now. I am not depressed, perhaps in love. "In love" sounds very very tacky. And I hate tacky.

At a play yesterday, something quaint happened. A friend called me up during the interval. She was outside the theatre. Went out in search of her; met the guards outside. They enquired if I had vacant seats beside mine. I nodded. They let her in...told her to go enjoy the play. The perks of Kolkata.

I am not upbeat, hence I type this out very very fast, cuz I am sure I will lose the will to type in a matter of seconds. It has happened quite a few times over the past few days.

Something is changing. I am very aware of that. I am not sure if it is a good thing though. 3 months remain of my teenage. I will be turning 20 this fall. I will miss this age.
I know it has neither been a tumultuous ride nor have I really "grown up into a man" over the past 6 years. I wasn't a normal teen and so probably I won't be a normal adult. I miss being young. I miss going to school. I miss open spaces. Huge expanses. Roads. Cows. I miss eating in. I miss the person I was.

I finally realized why Tom never wins.

A friend who was crashing with me over the past week has just left. Missing him.

Stressed to the T. Watching a lot of TV.

Am feeling very very insecure about my relationships now. Maybe I need to rethink stuff over. Still officially single though.

On this day.

Its strange how you can misjudge people. And circumstances.

I have not had time to post anything last week because of that. The fact that people kept changing in my eye. The fact that though the world didn't go Topsy-turvy, it did change in little subtle yet discernible ways. In ways it will never be the same.

I just came across an old orkut profile of an old friend. I never knew him in person. I never managed to know him. And though I know Face book is more fashionable now, he is lost and I miss him.

As I type this out, an old friend who I thought had grown distant I.M.-ed me . She asked me if I wanted anything from Bombay where she is now for an internship. I feel warm.

Discussed terrorism with 4 unknown people in an auto. An old lady smiled at me. We agreed that though India had its share of problems, we indeed are glad to be alive. As she put it, "Beche toh achchi."

A person who everybody told me and still tells me is bad, is not so bad. It is like the culmination of a great film where you don't know what to think cuz what just has happened is much too grey. I remembered all the reasons I liked her. Though she was a bad teacher, probably, she isn't that bad a person. Stayed up with us unfed, had her lunch with us at the end of the massive event we were organizing, smiled, didn't let us go hungry, didn't force us to hurry off without finishing, thanked us after it was all over and waved goodbye cuz she had to go to a wedding; with a twinkle in her eye.

Someone else isn't so nice after all. I apologize for being cryptic but I think if I go into greater detail, I shall remain bitter for the rest of the day tomorrow. And I have to spend three more semesters with this person. Its not just that my opinion of him has altered, it is that the person has fallen. In my eyes. In others eyes. In ways I think irredeemable.
I am not merely hurt. I am probably not that hurt at all. I feel vengeful. More than ever. I am forcing myself to be vengeful. I know his interests will not be harmed as a result of this and so he won't bother. I know he won't care. He is much too cold. Someone had warned me before. How I wish I had heeded to that word.

Back from Delhi. And exhausted. It was fun because I knew I was coming back. Home. Kolkata.

Walking down a road at 4 in the morning in the biting chill can be uplifting. I saw people in new light. Sometimes what we project ourselves to be is not really what we are. Old friends or dusty memory or 7 pegs of whisky is perhaps what it takes to bring us out. At 4, I realized wild partying intoxicated teens aren't demons. They are perhaps better people than us.


A friend loves babies. I hate them. I love him.

Inhaled more smoke this time around than any other past trip. All sorts of drugs went around. In the haze, things became clearer. "Living your life" isn't such a cliched line after all. The problem is, people tend to get lost in the haze. And I am talking not just about the "addiction". I am talking about themselves.

I am glad to be back. Kolkata lets you be. Delhi made things clearer. But it takes Kolkata to have a clear eye.

Compy

Sold my computer today. They disconnected every little part and detached it from the body and lay them on the dusty floor. The cables strewn across the floor, the monitor black and the speakers looking mangled, it was the final hour. Eight long years had passed with numerous mess-ups, innumerable crashes, millions of curses hurled at the now black monitor, lots and lots of thumps and slaps on its metal body.
The final piece has been removed now. I am moving. And moving on. My new home has no place for the old junk. Its someone else's junk now. A new history is about to begin. I can almost hear the weird noises it used to make when starting up...and I know its all in my head now.

Kharagpur Diaries

Looked at the sky for the first time in months. On the way back from I.I.T. Kharagpur, on the highway. Walking at 11 in a slightly tingly chilly weather. Trucks lined up for as long as the eye could see, for miles and miles and miles and a small tea stall with modest stocks of biscuits.
I had stepped out of the car cuz he insisted. It was he who had suggested the road trip. And shelled out the money. And grumbled half the way. Albeit cutely.
We looked at the sky together tonight. And as I looked at the stars that twinkled almost too beautifully to be true, I whispered to him something. I told him that everytime you look at the sky like this, you get this flutter in your heart that tells you that The Lion King could be true.

He agreed. And while the traffic petered out under the fog that had so suddenly descended, I found a friend beside me. And somebody much much more. Who had made me see the sky.

Gaza

Do we care?

2007

People tell me its important to post on the new year. I never could understand how to celebrate the dawn of another year. I still can't. I spent the day in a zoo and the night at home. I didn't party. I didn't want to.

On my first day at college, I had made a friend. He was shy and seemed intimidated. He seemed dazed. I liked him. We talked. We liked each other. Though I steadily made other friends and many many more acquaintances, we still walked back from college and talked to each other. We watched films together. At times, while walking on a sunny afternoon on a deserted pavement, I thought perhaps this was what college was about; sad at leaving my school, I thought this was the bond people talked about. This was growing up.

It was a Wednesday morning. I was late for my classes; at the foot of the college stairs, I met him. He was heading in the opposite direction. I waved, he responded. He was beaming. He came up to me. I was perplexed; he had got through another college and this was his last day in college. He seemed happy. I seemed happy for him. We promised to be in touch. I watched him walk away. Then I rushed to class.

For a year and half, I didn't recall him. I had thought of writing something else. He just came over me. For the past half hour, I have been trying to remember his name. I can't. His face is hazy. The only thing I do remember are his glasses. Am I sad? Not really.

Have a great year everybody.